


My Candy Sunshine Boy

by Caeseria



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blood Drinking, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Extremely Dubious Consent, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Human/Vampire Relationship, Loss of Identity, M/M, Manhandling, Masturbation, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Possessive Sex, Stalking, Temporary Character Death, Top Lance (Voltron), Vampire Bites, Vampire Lance (Voltron), Vampires, Voyeurism, because Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29708481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caeseria/pseuds/Caeseria
Summary: Lance McClain dies on a Tuesday evening; he meets his deadline, but not in the way he expected.  Draws the proverbial permanent line in the sand.He comes back as something else.And that something else wants to play with Keith.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to a new short(er) multi chapter. This is based on a piece of artwork by @drawmebabyblue on Twitter. There's something about this artwork that just.. pulls at me and I'm still not over it so I'm expanding on it now! I wrote a short thread on twitter last year, which I'm posting in this fic as chapter one, a sort of prologue. The actual story comes afterward in detail. I expect this to be about three chapters long. (Also, I did a poll on twitter to see if my followers wanted a fluffier version and the vote was overwhelmingly for dark fic, so, here we are!!)
> 
> You can find me on Twitter as @caeseria_nsfw. Come say hello!
> 
> Link to Blue's artwork - go shower them with lots of love!!! [here!](https://twitter.com/drawmebabyblue/status/1243182188885168131)
> 
> Many thanks to my beta Svana for buckling in on this chapter. <3<3
> 
> Please note the tags. They are there for a reason. I will be tagging further with the sexual stuff as it happens, and there will be dubious consent to start. Do not read this if you are triggered by this kind of thing. This fic will be fairly dark in content and subject. Please do not @ me in the comments if this is not for you; hit the back button now and go read something fluffy. :)

**Prologue**

Lance McClain dies on a Tuesday evening. It's raining; a steady downpour that keeps all but the most enthusiastic club goers at home, or in this case, college students trying to avoid deadlines.

Lance McClain dies on a Tuesday evening; he meets his deadline, but not in the way he expected. Draws the proverbial permanent line in the sand.

He comes back as something else.

If you look closely, you can see him now, standing there in the rain, his lean outline lit by the neon glow of the shitty diner across the street. Leaning against the wall of Club Altea.

He's waiting.

Watching.

There's a boy, you see. There's always a boy.

Keith Kogane leaves the club, pulling the collar of his red jacket up around his neck to ward off the damp, chill air. Forget the weather: he should have been more concerned with what remains of Lance McClain.

Keith Kogane disappears on a Tuesday evening, and they never find his body. But, if you look closely, there in the flickering neon light, you can still see Lance McClain, eyes lit with an unearthly blue glow, monstrous charm sitting at those full, sensuous lips, sweet red blood dripping from them like cotton candy.

Keith Kogane died on a Tuesday.

Or...

Did he?


	2. Chapter 2

**My Candy Sunshine Boy**

When Keith thinks about Lance McClain, he thinks of sunshine. Even before he’d known Lance as a friend – when they’d been rivals – his laugh would light up a room. When they’d been teens, his laugh had been musical and carefree, and as they've grown older, have grown into a friendship rather than frenemies, Lance's voice has finally cracked. Now, his laugh is like treacle, thick like honey, deeper in tone and all the sweeter for it.

Lance is just a little bit goofy, a lot nervous around Keith for reasons that Keith thinks he understands, but he doesn't want to hope for. Lance can be super, super annoying when he's running his mouth and trying to impress someone. He has tons of friends, and seems to have a foot in every social group at their college. He's athletic, a bit of a jock. He's lean but muscular, hair a dark chestnut brown that curls when it's damp. His eyes are a shade of blue Keith's never seen on anyone else, and he has a smile that lights up a room. He's hot as fuck, but he's not yet realized it. He's still the boy next door, not the seducer – not yet.

Lance McClain is candy: bright, brilliantly packaged and sweet. And Keith wants to taste. Ho fuck, does he ever. 

Yeah, Keith has it – _had_ it – bad for Lance McClain, although he’s never really come out and said it outright. Maybe if he had, they'd have had a little more time together. For a few weeks before _it_ happened, before Lance disappeared that Tuesday night, they'd both been circling each other, testing the waters. Lance's laugh had grown steadily more flirtatious. He'd lean in a little, head dipped closer to Keith's as he’d laugh, close enough for Keith to catch the faint scent of his cologne; hints of vanilla and deep musk. That scent was just as addicting as the sound of Lance's laughter; mixing with his hormones. Sometimes Keith would feel almost high from it, and he was never sure if it was Lance's laugh that made him giddy or the thrill of something new, something exciting between them. Paused, teetering on the edge of admitting how they felt about each other. So, _so_ close to that first tentative kiss. They'd been saving that; an unspoken agreement to wait for that weekend, wanting to take their time to explore this new thing without having to rush or deal with deadlines. Just them. Just them and as much time as they wanted. 

Tuesday night had been a dark and rainy night from what Keith remembers, thunderclouds unloading in a never-ending storm that had torn the newly formed buds from the trees, dashed the blossoms from the branches, petals bruised and torn on the soaking wet ground. 

The night had come and gone, Keith texting with Lance until he’d had to go in for his shift. Lance worked twice a week at the shitty diner right across from Club Altea, earning just enough money to supplement what his parents gave him. Enough money to take Keith on that date, he'd texted with a laugh. That was the last laugh Keith had ever had from Lance; it hadn’t even been spoken out loud so that he could have drowned one last time in that honeyed voice. No, this had been a simple 'lol'; a sign off before Lance had gone into work.

Because Lance had gone into work, had worked that first hour of his shift, had gone outside for break and had simply… disappeared.

They've never found his body. 

They said that even if there had been a trace of Lance McClain to be found, the storm would have washed away the evidence and any traces of blood. The human body has a lot of blood to spill – on average, nine or ten pints of it. 

It's like Lance McClain never existed at all.

Keith will never hear his laugh again.

Keith's sunshine boy is gone.

* * *

It's almost a year before Keith regains some kind of equilibrium. He will forever mourn the loss of that _something_ they almost had together. Time will never change that yearning, that feeling that he and Lance had unfinished business. That they would have been perfect together – perfectly messy. They would have fought over stupid things, they would have laughed together. Explored their bodies together. Gotten jobs, moved away, gotten together again in some shitty, small apartment and clawed their way out of this small town. But they would have done it together. 

Always together. Never alone. 

For the first months after that Tuesday night, Keith is adrift. He's lost without his sunshine, retreating into the darkness, working himself to the bone at college and then searching for any kind of evidence at night. His other friends worry about him, but he ignores that in favour of finding anything, no matter how small that lead may be.

He starts hanging out at Club Altea, mainly so that he can keep an eye on the diner across the road. You'd never know a person – a beautiful boy, full of _life_ , a boy with a laugh like honey – had worked there. There's only the silhouette of a tired, middle aged woman there now, serving greasy plates of food with a side of ambivalence that only comes from a lifetime of dealing with other people's shit and bad attitudes.

It's been a year, and Keith is worn down to the bone. He doesn't sleep well. His grades are, understandably, terrible.

And then, one night, he crosses the alleyway beside that diner, on the way back from the club, and he hears it.

Sibilant. Mocking.

His name.

_"Keith…."_

Keith pauses, in the mouth of that alleyway, and stares down the darkness, daring it to come for him, to put an end to this endless searching. He almost wants it; wants the sharp stab of fear that comes before a fight, before his body rallies and punches back. He's not forgotten how to fight, even if he's forgotten how to be a rebel.

There's a scuff of what sounds like a shoe, deep in the maw of that alleyway. _Something_ is watching him. Blinking. Eyes of neon blue in the dark, like when you stare down a cat; eyes like lamplight. Keith leans forward, and the darkness leans back. He takes a step into that alley, and –

The burst of a loud radio from a passing car shatters the silence and the darkness retreats. Keith turns toward the car, and when he turns back, the alleyway is just that; an alley. There's no intelligence in the alleyway; the darkness doesn't _think_.

Keith feels a shiver rattle its way down his spine; electric fingers scraping at his subconscious.

He stares hard into the darkness, daring it to reveal itself, but the alleyway feels as empty as Keith's soul does. He feels hollow; like, for just a _moment,_ he remembered what it was to feel, to enjoy life, and now it's been stripped back to something rotten and decaying again.

He needs to feel some kind of emotion. He wants his sunshine boy back, and he wonders what kind of deal he'd have to make, and with who, so that he might feel even a little of what he had for Lance once more.

He lets out a huff of derisive laughter, aimed wholly at himself and the darkness, and turns on his heel.

Let the darkness come for him if it wants to.

* * *

That night shifts something within Keith. He feels reckless with it; like life is a gamble and it's entirely possible that he might lose the bet. Lance had lost, and Keith is hurtling toward a reckoning, he can feel it in his bones. It ignites within him, and for the first time in a year he feels the pull of his body's rhythms. Maybe it's the fear – or, the fact that he feels like he survived _something_ in that alleyway, something unnatural. His subconscious knows it, like an animal knows instinctively when something isn't right. It's like an itch at the base of his neck, shivering over his nape.

He gets back to his apartment, throws the keys on the counter. He's already stripping off his t-shirt as he makes his way down the hallway to his bedroom, unzipping the fly of his jeans. He flops back onto the bed; doesn't even bother to get undressed, just slips his hand inside his boxers and runs his fingers up his stiffening cock. He arches his back a little, lets his head fall back into the pillow, exposing his neck and moaning softly as he strokes himself, hand moving faster. His body is wired; like survival demands that he fuck it out, experience pleasure as a reminder that he's still here, that his heart is still beating in his chest.

Scent memory comes to him then, of Lance's cologne, faint with the passage of time. It makes him ache, his heart yearn with the pain of wanting what he can no longer have.

He comes with a soft cry of Lance's name, head thrown back, eyes wide as pleasure locks his body, spilling over his stomach and abs.

And then he freezes for an entirely different reason, and one far less pleasant. For there, just outside his third-storey window, he can see those blue eyes, watching him.

Despite his body's exhaustion, Keith doesn't sleep that night.

* * *

When Keith leaves the next morning for college, there's a single rose resting on the mat just outside his apartment door.

* * *

Lance's first real memory comes to him when sees the mortal standing at the mouth of the alleyway he's passing through. Aesthetically, the boy is beautiful. Pale skin, blue-black hair and plump lips that he's sure would be pouty under the right circumstances. Circles under his eyes, bruised from lack of sleep. A hard, lean body, bordering on thin, like he's starving. He is grieving, himself a walking cadaver, and that is what tugs at Lance's mind, like this should be familiar for some reason.

His memory plays with him for a few moments; he can almost see this boy laughing in his mind's eye. Lance thinks that he doesn't laugh very often, and only for a select few precious people. He knows that this boy has a laugh like spun sugar, soft and deep, and when he smiles, his cheekbones light with a dusting of sweet pink that stains his alabaster skin. He has strong fingers, a firm grip, and a punch to match; when he's angry he's like a god of thunder, loud and brash and dangerous. A soft memory of sweet longing tugs at Lance, but it's just a remnant; he doesn't know how to feel that emotion any longer. It's a sense-memory, as if he knows how he is supposed to feel, but it's clinical. He wants to experience it again, just so he can feed on it. He wants all of the boy's emotions; blood is food but the emotions that he can drink with it are just as heady. It's a drug; it's what takes that simple bloodlust to a higher state, all the more exquisite for it.

Maybe the boy can help him with that. 

Lance steps into the alley proper, pulling the darkness in around him, deepening it until it's like rich velvet. He takes a couple of steps closer to the exit until he stands just on the edge of it, an imaginary, but very real, line, drawn between what's _safe_ and what is _danger_. The mortal can't pierce the veil of Lance's darkness. Instead, he stares hard into the alleyway with a small frown, hair hanging down into his eyes. He _knows_ something is wrong, Lance thinks. The mortal boy can sense it, and yet he stares it down like he's going to punch it in the face and see if it's a K.O, fully prepared to take a bloody lip in return for getting in that first shot.

_Keith_. That's the boy's name. It rolls off Lance's tongue like a caress, sibilant and suggestive. He likes the sound of it in his mouth; it feels familiar. He thinks of rose petal kisses, the soft sigh this boy would make if you treat him gently, and Lance suddenly wants to ruin him. Rend him into pieces, see what he looks like spread out and used. He's delicious.

_Mmmm_. Colour Lance officially interested. 

He waits to see what the mortal will do; if he'll cross over that invisible line into the alleyway. Lance almost hopes that he doesn't; he wants to savour the chase for just a little longer. Maybe he'll yearn for this complicated mortal as much as the boy mourns his missing lover. Meantime, he'll revel in the boy's - _Keith's_ \- emotional turmoil, taste and sip at it like a fine, aged wine. Full bodied and red, red as the thick blood that pushes it way through his veins. 

He watches the boy take a step back, hesitating a little, and Lance pushes the darkness out of the alley until it's nipping at Keith's toes, until he's standing on the edge of the monstrous maw of Lance's will, his command, like wavelets lapping at his feet. He shudders, and Lance wants to see him shudder and tremble from something more intense than simple fear, simple instinct. Lance decides then that he will shake Keith apart, tear him asunder and turn him to his will.

Curiosity prompts Lance further, and he follows the boy to his residence. And oh, of course, Lance recognizes it. More of those sense-memories surface, and this is why the boy is so familiar. They were friends, maybe?

It's easy for Lance to slip into the building, walking brazenly into the foyer. He allows himself to be seen, to appear to other's eyes. Just another boy, walking through the public areas. Never mind he has no invitation; he needs none here where this domain is public property. This building is old; a riot of art nouveaux brass and grotesquery, the lobby decaying slowly. This place is cared for; it passes the decades in glorified gentry. Someone - maybe a caretaker - feeds it with his own memories, his own emotions and needs, and this building grows fat and old on them.

He crosses the lobby, takes the stairs, shallow and wide, which wind around the old elevator that occupies the middle of the building. It's an odd design; the elevator car is nestled within a wire frameinstead of being closed off so that a person inside can look out, with only the cage between them and the stairs. The elevator looks disused, or maybe nobody trusts the mechanisms, easily a hundred years old or more. Simpler to take the stairs than risk plummeting to your death, bones broken on the basement floor.

Lance's instincts and pseudo-memory remember the building; silent footsteps along the third floor corridor, carpet muffling any sound. It's almost a surprise when he reaches the apartment at the end of the hallway, only to find that he can't access it. For a moment, he's indignant; another sense-memory, because this threshold was never barred to Lance before he changed. Death is temporary; why should it prevent him from his getting his reward? The boy doesn't notice that he's been followed, thinks himself safe inside his home. Lance can sense him moving around, can sense his emotions.

He growls, steps right up to the threshold, cursing, words tumbling from his lips in his native language. Fuck the old boundaries. Fuck the old ways that govern his kind and bind him with twisted words. He places one hand on the wood, as if he can command Keith by osmosis, persuade him to come to the door, to invite him inside. Lance smirks. Yes, he will make this boy invite him inside - inside his apartment. His mind. Inside his body.

Lance pushes away from the door. No matter; he cannot access the door this way, but that doesn't mean he can't see what his prey is doing from elsewhere. 

Each floor of this old building has a set of elegant, double doors that lead from its foyer to a wide stone balcony outside. It's a matter of seconds to break the lock, breathe in the clear air, and to jump up onto the balustrade. He steps out, hovering in the air, using his gifts to sweep along the side of the building until he finds the window he's looking for. And oh, what a sight to behold. The boy, spread out on his bed, is working himself over, hand moving beneath his underwear. He looks frantic, worked up and fucked out already, like he's trying to force himself to feel something. And feel he is. Lance moves closer, until his hands are pressed against the cool glass of his window, and watches as the boy chases his pleasure. Lance can feel it, and more than just as a voyeur; he can't have his blood, but he can feed on his emotions. And the more intense those emotions, the fuller Lance feels. It's only when the glass fogs under his breath that he realizes how close he's pressed to the window, fingers sliding over the glass as Keith reaches his peak, head thrown back, black hair like a halo around his head, angelic. His orgasm is sugar-sweet, almost too sweet; pleasure tinged with an innocent yearning, spicy with bitter disappointment that he cannot have the one he wants so badly.

Lance lets himself float back a few feet, considering. Should he try to convince the boy to come to him? Maybe he can draw him to the threshold of his doorway? No, he decides. It can wait. Lance is sated on Keith's pleasure; he wants to wait until he's hungry again. He'll not feed until he can have Keith, he decides. He wants that sugar, sweet on his tongue, Keith's blood throbbing under his teeth. It takes Lance a few moments to realize that the body on the bed is unnaturally still; it seems that Keith has realized something isn't quite right. He's staring out the window, gaze frozen with fear, and Lance laughs. He laughs, sibilant and pleased, before dropping quickly to the dewy grass below.

Maybe he'll leave Keith a gift. After all, aren't you supposed to leave a potential lover a token of your regard, of your desire? Lance can't remember what he did when he himself was alive, or if he'd given Keith gifts in the past. He'll leave him a single rose, he decides, and see how Keith reacts.

Whatever happens next, it will, no doubt, be delicious.

* * *

At first, Keith downplays his strange experience that night; tries to ignore how those haunting blue eyes had watched him from outside his window. He's not sure how long whatever it was had been watching him and, while he does feel his cheeks heat with faint embarrassment over what he’d been doing, it's not really a big deal. So he's got a ghostly pervert. Or Mothman, since it appears it can fly. He can ignore the first and probably deal with the second, right? It would be harder to deal with the never ending, mocking, comments from Pidge if they ever found out. No, Keith is more than content to file this one away as an odd, bizarre evening and call it done.

That is, until the roses start appearing.

He finds the first one outside his apartment door the morning after the strange incident with the eyes. It rests on the mat, a single, red rose, starting to unfurl from the warmth of the building. Keith stares at it, as if he's waiting for something to happen, for someone to jump out at him. He's on edge, his throat goes dry as he bends down to pick it up. He stuffs in into his bag and then forgets about it.

The second rose he finds a few days later, in the pocket of his red jacket. He's on the way back from an evening class, and he's hunting around for his bus pass. He sticks his hand in his pocket, searching for the familiar shape of the card. That's when his fingers brush against something soft and velvety, cool to the touch. Puzzled, Keith pulls it out, opening his hand to find a single red rose bud, its petals pristine and perfect. As he watches, the petals unfurl, and the heady scent of summer tea roses clouds the air. Keith blinks stupidly, trying to figure out where the rose might have come from, even as he watches the petals fade and blow away, dropping from his lax fingers. The rose’s scent changes, until it's a faint echo of familiar cologne; a scent he'd never thought he'd experience again. That scent wholly belongs to Lance - he's never come across anyone else who wears it, and Lance had made the cologne fully his, his pheromones mixing with the scent to create something heady, soft and addictive that Keith could quite happily breathe in forever.

He blinks again, realizing that he has tears in his eyelashes, and he watches as a single one drops to the last velvet petal left in his palm. He shakes his head, and then looks up, a tight ache in his throat. _I will not cry,_ he thinks, angry at himself even as he feels the familiar, aching pain of missing Lance. _I will not break down here in public, over something as ridiculous as the scent of a rose_ , he thinks.

* * *

Tonight, Keith knows he's being followed; he can feel that shiver down his spine, ghosting across the nape of his neck. He crosses the road, and looks over his shoulder under the guise of checking for traffic. Nothing; of course he can't see anything there. He pauses on the edge of the curb, staring into the deep shadows. They are everywhere; the foyers of shop fronts, alleyways, next to parked cars. And now, as he leaves the center of town, those shadows seem to elongate, to nip at his heels, from beneath trees, down the valleys of long driveways, the porches of the massive old Victorian houses in this part of town. Every shadow seems laden with anticipation, heavy dread pulling at his senses. He knows he's being followed, _stalked_. He's attracted something's attention, and he doesn't like it.

There's a lesson Keith learned a long time ago, back when he’d been scrappy and young with something to prove. And that lesson is that, sometimes, you just gotta give in and run. 

Keith feels instinct overtake him hard and he runs; totally books it. Starts to sprint, hands pumping at his sides and he goes faster, and faster, breath heaving in his chest, eyes wide. There's a predator after him, and its close, almost nipping at his heels. 

He can't run forever. But, he can reach the safety of his apartment.

His steps slow as he rounds the corner of the lawn fronting his building, and then he picks up speed again, running across the driveway to the main entrance, bright with welcoming light in the darkness. The double doors, heavy with art nouveaux brass decoration, are right _there_ , and Keith skids to a halt, drags one of them open. He can feel breath against his neck, but he refuses to look up, to look in the glass to see what's behind him. Something tells him he doesn't want to know. Then he's through, into safety, turning around to glance back at the front doors. 

The shadow outside watches him for a moment, and Keith takes the opportunity to draw in deep, heaving breaths. He's wheezing, out of shape these past few months as he's let everything slide in the wake of his grief; he's not nearly as fit as he was last summer. His brain is scrambled from the run; operating on flight or fight instinct, from staying alive, and he has no doubt that if the shadow had caught him, he'd be dead. 

And then the shadow reaches out slowly, movement languid and almost elegant, and pulls open the door.

Keith watches it step lightly over the threshold, footsteps solid, and enter the black and white tiled foyer. The shadow locks bright blue eyes on Keith, and Keith's blood runs cold. He knows those eyes - realizes that this is what had been watching him the other night when he -

No, he's more than familiar with those blue eyes. Before, they’d been like the ocean, ever changeable and shifting in color, sparkling sometimes with laughter, sunlight on the surface of the sea. Now they are shards of ice, brilliant blue and harsh, hypnotising in their intensity.

Those eyes - that face - belongs to only one person, beloved, dearly missed. _Missing_ , presumed dead.

"Lance?" Keith croaks out that name, a half-whisper, half aching sob.

The revenant – the _shadow_ of his friend - takes another step, crossing the threshold properly. It grins at Keith, a satisfied smirk sitting monstrous at the corner of those plump, sensuous lips. Lips that Keith once yearned to kiss, to know the shape of. He’d wanted to taste that smile with his own. Now it’s framed by sharp incisors that prick at the cushion of its bottom lip.

" _Keith_ ," comes the sibilant answer, echoing from all corners of the room. The revenant's lips do not move - it's like his name is placed directly in his mind at the same time it's suggested into the space he occupies.

It takes another step closer, and Keith steps back. His instinct tells him that something is wrong; this whole time he's known that there's something unnatural about what has been observing him, what has been following him. He should trust his instincts more, he thinks. For what he thought was his missing friend is clearly... not. Not quite. This thing that _might_ be Lance has not only a new, fierce, predatory intelligence about it, a hungered craving that shows clearly in the way it moves – the way it _pursues_ \- Keith but, along with its iceshard eyes, it has different hair. Whereas before Lance's hair was a sun kissed, chestnut brown, now it is pure white, moonglow and shockingly harsh. Alien. Its cheekbones standing out sharply, in contrast to that full, sensual, kissable mouth.

"Where have you been? What happened to you?" Keith demands. He sucks in a shaky breath, instinct ~~s~~ clawing at him to run even while he needs answers. Answers are, right now, maybe more important than fleeing; now that he's seen this thing, he needs to _know_.

The thing that might be Lance tilts its head, like it's trying to decide if it wants to answer. It hums a little as it thinks, and it's _exactly_ what Lance used to do when he was mulling things over, deciding how to answer. It brings tears to Keith's eyes.

"What happened to me? Not sure exactly," it hedges. "Blood. Pain. A little death. The twisting of a soul isn't a fun thing, Keith. It hurt. I was frightened."

Keith hesitates. He's shaking, and he's not sure if it's from the horror of thinking that this might be Lance, or from the way the revenant describes its death in such a matter-of-fact way. His beautiful sunshine boy, full of laughter, rendered by pain and gore into this sharp and equally beautiful prince of starlight; grotesque and deadly. 

He takes a trembling step toward it. Toward Lance. Closer with every step until they are toe to toe, him and this remnant of the boy he’d loved. He reaches out a trembling hand, palm hovering between them. The revenant smiles at Keith, raises a well-manicured eyebrow as if to say, _why wait? Go ahead. Touch me and find out for yourself._

Keith lowers his hand slowly to its chest, right over its heart, and lets his palm settle heavy against its skin. 

Lance is cool to the touch - not icy cold, but definitely a lower temperature than a human would be. Skin still soft, it gives like a human's would when he presses gently. He digs his fingers in a little, feels the fabric of the silk shirt it wears slide over its skin. But there's no heartbeat, or if there is, it's so slow that he can't detect it.

Keith moves to snatch back his hand, and Lance grabs his wrist, grip like iron. Keith can feel the bones in his wrist shift a little, and he cries out, tries to pull away. Instead, the revenant yanks Keith closer until they are pressed against each other in a parody of embrace, two lovers on the cusp of kissing.

It leans in and tilts its head to the side, breath cool against Keith's ear. There's a pause, and then it whispers hotly, "Are you going to run? I enjoy the chase; it excites me. It makes your blood run hot, warms your emotions until it's like drinking fine wine from a delicate crystal glass. Humans break so easily, you know, Keith; sometimes I have to be careful not to spill a drop."

Keith struggles to get the thing to release his wrist, feels the skin pull and twist beneath its grip. He does what his instincts tell him to when cornered like a hunted animal: fight back. And that's always been a strength of Keith's - he's a scrappy fighter, not to mention he's ambidextrous with a hell of a mean left hook.

The noise it makes when his fist connects with Lance's jaw is refreshingly normal, although the revenant barely moves. Keith's hit harder before, been more focused (not this shaking mess he is right now), but he's also never, ever considered decking his best friend; the man he loves. Still, it's done now. The hit connects with a wet smack and the sound of bones shifting, but it doesn't seem to faze this monstrous thing before him. It merely shakes the blow off, and releases Keith. Keith staggers backward, and before the thing can change its mind, Keith runs. His only thought is _get somewhere safe, safe where it can't get to me_.

Keith gets as far as the old elevator. He thinks about the stairs, but the wide sweep of the staircase around the elevator would allow the thing to catch up to him. He doesn't give it another thought; he wrenches open the brass door and slips inside the cage. He slams the door and presses the 'up' button. The elevator shudders and complains, rocks slightly, but starts to rise. Keith, breathing heavily, adrenaline pumping through his body, watches through the safety cage as the revenant watches him in turn. It observes him, bright blue eyes almost glowing, the light flickering as it blinks up at him. It's still wearing Lance's smirk, that playful smile that used to captivate Keith so much. Keith bites back a single sob, like his body simply can't hold that much grief and horror inside, and he curls his fingers in the brass cage as it rises. 

One moment the revenant is in the foyer, and then it moves preternaturally fast, the next pressed against the outer cage of the elevator, right in front of Keith. It hisses, grinning at him, like they are playing a game, and Keith shouts in alarm, throwing himself backward against the rear of the box. It's only then that he realizes the mistake he's made, because now he is truly caged in by this thing and at its mercy. What he thought would be a smart idea getting in here is actually a fatal mistake on his own behalf. _Shit_.

Lance moves up the staircase, following the ascent of the car as it rattles and squeaks its way slowly between floors. This isn't a modern elevator, travelling quickly. This is an ancient dance, slow and careful as the car wheezes it way upward; the very threat of grinding to a halt or even worse, plummeting to the basement, keeping Keith on edge. Not that he's got much fear left for that at the moment, no. Most of his fear, and his disbelief, is reserved for the revenant that is winding its way up the staircase, steps graceful yet light. Every few steps upward it lunges toward the cage, like it's playing a game and Keith is the soft gooey prize in the center.

"C'mon, don't play hard to get, Keith," it whispers, hands curling into the frame of the outer cage. It watches him as the elevator rises, shuddering between the first and second floor.

In the time it takes for the car to clear the second floor, glacially slow, Lance is waiting for him. Frustration is evident in his expression, eyes like hard shards of brittle ice. He - it - rattles the door to the elevator, and Keith let's out a relieved bark of laughter. He can't help it. "Looks like the Super's locked the cage for safety reasons," he goads. "Tough luck."

The noise the revenant makes is inhuman in its frustration. It bounds up the next few steps until it's behind Keith, making Keith yelp in surprised fear, turning around and pushing himself against the front of the elevator, as far from the thing as possible. Keith watches as it climbs, working its way back around the elevator as the stairs hug the elevator shaft.

It lunges forward again, the brass protesting as it winds its fingers into the art nouveau designs; leaves and vines and lilies bending under the pressure of this unnatural being. "I'm going to peel you open," it hisses. "Play with you, make you sing for me. And when you blossom, I'm going to tear each single petal from your body and soul and listen to your sweet screams."

Keith thinks he might vomit. It's such a visceral, detailed description of what really nests inside this creature. If Lance is in there, if that is truly still him, the innocent boy is buried deep, maybe completely gone, replaced with whatever _this_ cruel thing is. It physically hurts to look at this creature and see it wearing Lance's face, his expressions. It hurts to listen to that voice. It's been so long since Keith has heard it; deep and honey warm, soft whispers in the night during sleepovers. Whispered secrets between friends; the promise of something more as they became adults.

"No! You aren't Lance. You aren't my friend!" Keith screams, lunging back at the cage. The monster looks surprised for a moment, and then it smiles, cackling out a delighted laugh. It runs up a few steps, until its level with Keith again, watching him.

They stare at each other for moments as the elevator finally reaches the divide between second and third floors. Then there's a sound, as of a door being opened, and footsteps in the foyer.

"Mr. Kogane? Is that you?" the voice calls.

Wide eyed in horror, Keith stares at the grinning features of the revenant as it slowly backs away from the elevator cage. The last thing Keith's sees before the car crests the third floor is the back of the thing, slipping silently down the stairs.

* * *

Keith doesn't move for a few precious seconds when he makes it to the third floor. The revenant - _Lance_ \- doesn't reappear on the staircase, seemingly distracted by the building Super. Despite that, Keith remains there, unmoving, some instinct telling him to freeze so as not to draw attention to himself, to not make a sound. Further seconds tick by, and Keith decides that it's now or never if he wants to get out of here, hopefully while Lance is distracted. He fumbles with the lock; the elevator cage is sealed for safety but he's able to release the mechanism from the inside, jimmying it until the aged metal simply gives way.

Then he's booking it down the corridor, turning the corner and running. He can see his door, and that door means safety on the other side. Lance hadn't been able to enter the other night; he’d simply watched him from the window, so Keith is going to assume that it can't get inside. Being an expert on cryptids (even if his friends treat it as a joke) Keith is starting to form a theory, and if he's correct, the threshold to his apartment is more important than he thought.

That boundary is sacred, and it might save his life.

He's so busy fixating on the door of his apartment that he forgets how fast Lance can move. The fear and the anticipation of being caught spur Keith to run faster, but he can hear the revenant behind him. 

Keith almost makes it. He gets his fingers on the door handle, his keys in his shaky hand. And then Lance is on him, pushing him into the solid wood of the door chest first, pressing him to it. 

Keith struggles, can feel the hard, cool body against his, against the length of his own. He hears Lance chuckle, like he's amused, breath fluttering against the nape of Keith's neck. Keith pushes backward, fumbles at the door and with the lock, because if he can get the door open, he can get across the threshold. Lance gets his hands on Keith's slender hips and manhandles him easily, lifting him up and turning him until his back is against the door. Keith isn't going to just give in, and immediately swings at Lance, fist clenched with another (less successful) right hook, and Lance snatches at his wrist, pinning it to the door above Keith's head. Keith arches beneath him, and Lance takes a moment to slip his thigh between Keith's, pinning him effectively. His other hand rests heavy on Keith's hip, on the bare strip of skin just above Keith's belt.

Keith gives Lance a murderous glare. He can feel how his face flushes from exertion, how his body is warm against Lance's as he struggles to get free. Lance holds him against the door effortlessly, pinned like a bug, and grins. "You are so much fun," Lance murmurs, tilting his head.

"What did you do to the Super?" Keith demands. "Fuck, you can't kill him, tell me you didn't."

Lance laughs. "What are you going to do if I did?" he asks, looking down at Keith. "You're hardly in a position to tell me what to do."

Keith looks at Lance, bites his lip. Stares at that familiar, beloved face and tries to understand how he got to where they are now. How Lance, who never bothered anyone his whole life other than to be slightly annoying in his innocent enthusiasm for everything, could end up as this hard killer. This unnatural being. Because Keith finally has to admit what he didn't want to; that his best friend, as he knew him, is dead, his shell now filled with this hard, cold, killing machine. The only question that remains is this: is what’s left an aspect of Lance himself, or is it a demon that has moved in, rent free, and now lives inside what was once his friend, wearing his face and killing at will?

"Lance...I can't…" Keith drops his head, stops fighting. Goes lax in Lance's hold for a moment.

"Don't tell me you're giving in," Lance says, and he sounds... disappointed. "Where's that fire I remember? Where's the scrappy little street fighter? The passionate boy I loved?"

Keith sucks in a surprised breath, meets Lance's gaze. It's still shocking; he expects to see soft emotion behind his eyes, not the iceshard blue he's staring at now. "You loved me?" Keith forgets for a moment that this might not be Lance, but rather a parody of him. A vehicle for something else much more sinister and dangerous.

"I still do, sweetheart," says Lance. He presses forward, using Keith's stilled shock to manhandle him a little more, and he leans in until he's only millimeters away. He smiles, and Keith catches a glimpse of a sharp fang against Lance's plump lip. _Vampire,_ Keith thinks, letting that realization settle. It's obvious, isn't it? This thing, this revenant, it’s a vampire. The acknowledgement burrows into his soul, quick with pain like a knife wound, and for a moment he's glad, because that means he can still feel, right? It means he's still alive. And as he stares into Lance's eyes, he feels a sort of calmness steal over him, turning him lax in Lance's tight hold. He feels like he's floating, and even as he relaxes, he knows this is wrong, that this is what vampires do; lull their victims with sweet words and a sense of security, put them under a thrall.

It takes Keith a moment to realize how close Lance is to him, almost exchanging breath. Keith can make out the fan of Lance's eyelashes, the faint freckles on his cheekbones.

"Don't you want to know what my kisses taste like?" Lance whispers in Keith's ear.

"Like sunshine," Keith murmurs, leaning in, nuzzling into the alabaster cold of Lance's neck. His lips brush across Lance's shoulder, just above his silk shirt. At the same time, he can feel the graze of teeth, twin points of razor sharpness resting against his throat, and he moans, tilts his head back until it rests against the door and Lance has unfettered access to him. In reward, Lance rolls his hips, and Keith can feel how aroused he is, how much he wants Keith.

"Tell me you want me, Keith," Lance whispers. "Tell me you want it."

Keith whines, caught and pinned and unable to take what he wants for himself. He feels the slow graze of Lance's teeth, the pressure Lance teases him with; the _possibility_ of the bite. Then there are lips on his neck, a soft brush of a kiss and a warm tongue, lapping quickly over his skin. Then pain: pain that makes Keith cry out, sharp and exquisite as Lance sinks his fangs into Keith's neck. His large hand slides from Keith's hip around to the small of his back and he presses closer, supporting Keith as he drinks from him. His fingers tighten around Keith's wrist above his head, and Lance moans, a rich, deep sound of enjoyment and pleasure. 

That sound ignites something in Keith's center, burns outward with pleasure, and he's suddenly drunk on it. He can feel himself harden alongside Lance, and his hips tick forward. _Fuck, fuck, it feels so good_ , even as he can feel the draw of his blood, the bruise forming where Lance has punctured his skin.

And, right before the pleasure becomes overwhelming, Lance pulls back and retracts his fangs. Pleasure is replaced with pain once more, and Keith lets out a keening sound, reminiscent of loss. He's gasping for breath, body tight with need, still pressed against Lance's. Lance himself is gasping into Keith's neck, equally wound up, his blunt nails digging into the small of Keith's back, pinpricks of lesser pain. "Well aren't you sweet? Just like candy," Lance gasps out. Keith can feel his smirk against his neck as Lance places a final kitten-soft kiss over the wound he's created. Then he loosens his hold, pulling back to look at Keith from lidded eyes, heavy with desire, the pupils blown wide. Keith feels incredibly floaty, and it takes him a minute to focus.

"Like candy?" he repeats, making Lance laugh. 

This time, Lance leans in to brush his bloody lips against Keith's; an almost kiss. "That's a promise for later," Lance says with a grin. "A placeholder. I'm gonna come back for that."

Whatever Lance did to Keith is wearing off. He can feel a little of his senses slowly returning. He feels Lance moving; he's released Keith's wrist - when did that happen? - and he's fiddling with the lock on Keith's door. That wakens Keith - he panics. "No!" he exclaims, because he can't have Lance crossing the threshold. He can't let him in. 

"Relax, sugar," Lance drawls, getting the door unlocked. He grasps the handle, swings the door open, until Keith is poised there, open space behind him and the safety of his apartment only a step away. Lance removes his grip from Keith's waist and gives him a small push. It sends Keith stumbling backward over the lip; he lands on his ass, inside the safety of his apartment, beyond Lance's reach.

Lance grins again; oh so familiar and heartaching in his beauty, but with a sinister edge to it now. "Sleep tight," Lance says. "Not to worry, sweetheart, your boyfriend's back."


End file.
